


Cage The Singer

by SpiritsFlame



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsFlame/pseuds/SpiritsFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is surprised when he is summoned by King Aelle to communicate with their captured Viking savages. He is more surprised when he starts to understand, even befriend, the man called Ragnar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cage The Singer

“It is a great honor,” Brother Edmund says, his sentiments echoing in the quite halls. He traces the cross in the air in front of Athelstan, bowing his head solemnly.

“I am honored,” Athelstan replies. “I thank our Lord for this opportunity.”

“Thank the Lord,” Brother Edmund echoes. He reaches out with his withered hands and tugs Athelstan’s robes straight. “You are a man of many gifts, Brother. This could be a great opportunity for you.”

Athelstan smiles. “I confess, I will miss our quite sanctuary. But I have enjoyed my travels in the past, and this is only one of a different sort.”

“Precisely. Now, my brother, you must remember that the city has many temptations for a young man. Come, we shall pray together until it is time to leave.”

Athelstan does not believe he will be tempted, but he nods his agreement. He kneels down beside Brother Edmund and begins their ritual prayers. The King’s men will come for him soon enough.

Indeed, it feels as though they have barely begin when the rough, too loud voices of soldiers begin to disrupt their words. The monks here speak in soft voices, head’s ducked in the halls of the Lord. These soldiers are a sharp contrast, their words carrying in halls that were made to carry the sounds of chanting and voices raised in song. 

“Where is this Brother Athelstan, then?” A voice demands, and Athelstan rises to his feet. He offers a hand down to Brother Edmund, who has grown out of the years of rising with ease. Brother Edmund takes his hand with a weary and grateful smile, which Athelstan returns. He will miss this quiet, this easy comradery that he feels with his brothers. He does not have much in common with his fellows, but they are brothers under God and he will not even have that among the people in the city.

“Calm yourself,” Brother Edmund says as they pass through the doors. “Brother Athelstan is here, and he is prepared to accompany you.”

There are three soldiers, more than Athelstan would have thought necessary to escort a simple monk. They are young though, and they give him looks of frank curiosity. Athelstan ducks his head against their stares.

Brother Edmund touches Athelstan’s elbow. “Brother, I have a gift for you.” 

Athelstan frowns in surprise. “I need no gift.”

“It is from us all.” Brother Edmund gives him a friendly smile. “You would not deny us the opportunity to give our chosen what little we can.”

“No, but,”

“It is decided,” Brother Edmund says gently, and his words are firm. Athelstan shakes his head but does not press harder. He hoists his simple cloth sack, containing a spare set of robes, a simple razor and a small bible, higher up on his shoulder. 

“What is it that you will give me, then?” He asks, allowing himself to smile. “An extra quill, in case the king is desirous of my abilities as a scribe? Some rosaries to pass out among the tempted youths of the city life.”

“Nothing so plain, brother.” Brother Edmund replies, pulling something from the rocket in his robes. Athelstan gasps, and pushes the book away when Brother Edmund attempts to give it to him. 

“I cannot take this!” he protest, the words a whispered hiss with the onlooking soldiers. Brother Edmund makes another attempt to press the delicate, well pressed Bible into his hands. It is bound with wood and leather, one of the ones they make for the nobility. This is not the bible of their order, bound in sheepskin on too thin pages, but a work of art.

“You are going to do God’s work, Brother,” Brother Edmund presses. “Should you not take his words with you.”

Athelstan traces the delicate carvings on the cover with care. This is one of his favorites- he had not thought anyone had noticed him lingering over it. It is selfish of him, unchristian, but he cannot deny this offer. His fingers close around the book.

“Thank you,” he says, soft and sincere. 

Brother Edmund smiles at him. “Go with God, my brother.”

“You as well,” Athelstan replies solemnly. He sees some of the children he has taught letters to peeking around a doorframe and spares them a smile and a wave. They wave back, and he thinks the younger ones of the group may have run to him were it not for Brother Wilbur shepparding them away again. He is glad that he was able to see them this last time.

Athelstan turns back to the soldiers. “I am ready now.”

“Oi, it’s about time!” One of them says, voice overloud once more. His fellow nudges him and receives a glare for his troubles. “What?” The first soldier demands. “The king does not like to be kept waiting, and it won’t be my head on the line, that’s for sure. This one draggin his feet like he is, we’ll all be late.”

“Then let’s get going,” the third guard hisses. He turns to Athelstan, who smiles blandly, as though he could not hear their bickering. “Come along, Brother Athelstan. King Aelle wants to see you as soon as may be.”

“Of course,” Athelstan says, following them amiably. He tucks the precious book into his pack as he moves, making sure it will not be jostled too terribly. They have travelled for several miles, with the soldiers laughing and joking over Athelstan’s head, before he has the opportunity to ask the guards anything.

“He don’t share his business with the likes of us,” the second soldier snaps. 

“You’ll see soon enough,” the first one agrees. Athelstan turns to the third soldier, who seems to be the brightest of the lot.

The man shrugs. “I’ve naught but my guesses, and far be it from me to guess what is in the mind of kings.” He gives Athelstan a sideways look. “But if you ask me, it’s something to do with those wild savages who’ve come from the east. They say he’s captured a few, who fight like beasts and talk like the devil. My guess is, you’re here for them.”

\--

King Aelle is not what Athelstan had expected, had hoped, for in a great king. In any king. He lounges on his throne like he has never done anything else, and his small eyes are piggy and mean over an unkempt beard.

Athelstan takes a deep breath and cautions himself against hasty judgments- every man may be more than he appears. 

King Aelle gives him a cursory once over, but does not stir from his sprawl over the throne. One of Athelstan’s guards goes to the kings side and mutters something in his ear. Athelstan wonders what It was that he could not say aloud. 

“So you are the priest?” King Aelle demands, beckoning Athelstan closer. 

“I am Brother Athelstan,” he bows respectfully. “I am a monk from-“

Aelle waves a lazy hand. “I don’t care where you are from. You speak the tongue of these barbarians?”

Athelstan hesitates. “It is possible, my liege. There are many dialects, and I am not familiar with them all.”

Aelle gives Athelstan a displeased look, then turns to one of the guards on his right. “You told me that this one spoke their language.”

The guard scrapes a hasty bow, more frightened than Athelstan is comfortable with- more than a man with a kind master has reason to be. “I was assured that this monk had a gift for languages. They said that he would likely speak their tongue.”

Aelle turns back to glower at Athelstan. “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“If I could have the opportunity to see these men, I can tell you immediately whether or not I know their language.”

Aelle gestures towards one of the soldiers still flanking Athelstan. “Take him to the savages.”

“This way, Brother Athelstan,” says the soldier who had introduced himself during the trip as Arram. The king waves them away, already moving on to the next issue. Clearly, visiting the captives is outside of his purview as King. 

Arram leads him out of the building through the center of the town. The press of people is uncomfortable after the monastery, the crowd too loud and pushing too close to him. Arram seems to sense his discomfort and tries to maneuver them away from the worse of the crowd. 

They finally reach a stone building outside the limits of the city, and it occurs to Athelstan how unsecured it is- should a breakout happen, it is only a quick journey to the shore, with no one any the wiser.

However, there are enough soldiers posted along the edge of the building to put Athelstan’s worries to rest. Arram nods at the guard of the door as he guides Athelstan inside. The walls inside are lined with cells, though only about two or three are filled. 

One of the men, unkept, feral, splattered with blood, catches sight of them and lunges to his feet. He yanks at the bars of his café, yelling obscenities. Arram gives him a bored look, then turns to Athelstan.

“Do you understand?” He asks.

Athelstan tries not flinch back, unnerved by the wild rage in front of him. He makes himself take a deep breath, steadying. The man is still yelling, and Athelstan can catch every odd word.

“I believe so,” he says hesitantly. “But the words he uses are not ones I know. Still, the tongue is familiar to me.” He flushes at one of the suggestions the man makes, one of the thing he does understand. “He is not pleased,” Athelstan adds.

Arram chuckles. “Come,” he says. “There is another, more calm. We believe him to be their leader.”

He leads Athelstan down a hallway and through a heavy set of doors. “King Aelle wanted us to keep him separate, so that he could not lead his men into an escape,” he explains. Athelstan nods. There is a single cell through the doors, a man standing against the far wall. His hands are chained above his head, but he is tall enough that they are not fully extended. 

The man, just as wild looking as the other, though somehow less feral, looks up at their entrance. Unlike his fellow captive, this one does not make an attempt towards the bars, merely watches them with an eerie calm. Athelstan gets the impression of a large and dangerous cat, waiting for the right moment to attack.

He wets his lips. “Hello. I am Brother Athelstan from a local monastery. Do you understand me?”

The man’s gaze jerks from Arram to Athelstan, and Athelstan thinks he can see startlement on the man’s face before it is hidden away beneath a dangerous looking smile.

“I am Ragnar. How is it you speak my language, little mouse?”


End file.
